


Dance With The Devil Tonight

by MissTantabis



Category: Will (TV 2017)
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 23:42:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14224389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissTantabis/pseuds/MissTantabis
Summary: Halfway through writing Doctor Faustus, Kit decides to take a little break and character study. He does this in the only way he knows how: By picturing the character in vivid detail. And thus he invites Mephistopheles to him for a nice conversation.





	Dance With The Devil Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ilthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/gifts).



He had been working for almost two days straight, hardly giving himself a break. Marlowe had finished what he deemed half way through his newest play The Tragedy of Doctor Faustus and once again the words danced and swirled before his very eyes. His head pounded and he could barely hold the quill.

Marlowe dropped the quill into the pot of ink and pushed the papers away. He rocked his chair backwards and forwards. The wood creaked. The poet rustled a hand through his hair and bite his lips. He wanted to allow himself to daydream a bit without writing stuff down. He had learned that sometimes letting the characters go through non-play related situations in his mind helped him to learn more about them. And while he had a very good grasp on Faustus, the poor sinner, Mephistopheles, the damned devil, was still a mystery to him.

And as his chair kept creaking from his back and forth movement, Marlowe felt his mind travel and recreate Faustus’ study in his mind. The high ceiling, the dull light, coming through narrow windows, shelves with books on law, medicine, magic and mathematic, bottles, filled with herbs. 

And he himself was wearing the Doctor’s robes and his small, black hat. Marlowe was sitting behind the desk. Smoke rolled in thick waves over the ground and before him rose elegantly dressed, yet oddly eerie Mephistopheles. The devil had strange markings on his skin and horns on his head. His eyes were yellow and glowed.

KIt moistened his lips. Even though he knew this was all in his hand, his own imagination excited and amused him. He loved to repicture Mephistopheles again and again, wondering how the devil would appear. Would he be scary and hidious as all the evil in the world? Or would he be elegant and pretty, seductive like the snake that had lured Adam and Eve out of the paradise?

This reimagination of his own creature seemed to be a cross between both. Handsome and scary at the same time. Marlowe liked this idea. It was so fluid, so natural. It felt right. He made a mental note to remember this idea.

Mephistopheles stared at Marlowe, before he asked coldly: “What is the meaning of this call? What’s in the master’s service?” He did not approach the desk.

Kit responded: “I have called upon thee, servant of the devil, to ask thee a few questions. Will you be so obliged to answer to my satisfaction? I shall release thee afterwards.”

Mephistopheles rose a hand and merely stated: “Tis the law of demons and ghosts. Once summoned, they must serve until release. I can tell thou hast done thy work well. Thy pentagramm is drawn excellently and each rune is in its correct place.”

The devil approached Kit. He laid his hand upon the poet’s cheek. The skin was covered in dust and dirt smelled like a wounded rabbit, unable to get underground. “Well then, Master Marlowe”, Mephistopheles crooned and let his hand run down, “what is it you inquire to know? Speak for we won’t have much time.”

Marlowe tried to push the other one’s hand away but strangely found he could not. There was something eerilie comforting about the way Mephistopheles kept his hand in his golden curls. He tried to remain calm. Still his mouth was oddly dry as he asked: “Who was the actual tempter that lead men out of paradise? The devil? The snake? Eve? Pray, tell me! I have to know.”

Mephistopheles flinched. “Doth not speak of praying around me”, he demanded sharply, “For prays are the nectar and embroisa of God. Beg if thou must, but never pray.”

“Yes, yes, of course”, Marlowe nodded hastly, “I understand. But now tell me. I beg of you!”

“Snake and Lucifer as you Christians say”, began Mephistopheles, “are one and the same. Yet what ye do not see is that temptation is a thing, resting inside of each of all yer wombs. For when ye were chased out of paradise, envy planted itself inside of yall like a worm and ye cannot help but glare at every richer milk, every riper corn, every thicker meat then what is on your plate.”

“Thus was it the snake that drew you out?” Mephistopheles by now was circling Marlowe like a wolf a stag. “Was it the devil? Was it Eve? It was all three of them and none of them at the same time. For it is in the nature of human kind to fall pray to sin and temptation. Being sinless is false. Being sinful is the norm.”

Kit stared into the blazing eyes and rose a brow. “It is?”, he replied in disbelief.

“Aye. I’ll show thee.” And upon a wave of Mephistopheles, a whole horde of ghosts appeared in the room. They were small and catlike with glowing eyes, but clear and high voices. They were circling them. Mephistopheles said: “Listen to them, Marlowe, for they will enrichen your senses, sharpen your ears, make you not believe your eyes and your taste will crave for much more then Earth can hope to give you. Begin!”

And the ghosts sung. And as they did so, something happened that Marlowe could not really describe. It was as if he had been plunged into a whirlwind of colours, sounds, smells and tastes. It all rushed around him, fast and hypnotising. Marlowe tried to keep up with what was happening, but even as he did so, he felt a tiredness and content sink into his limbs.

The poet slowly sunk down upon the table. In his imagination, Mephistopheles rose a hand again and the ghosts stopped. “Well done, my friends”, the devil said, “You have sung him to sleep. For this wonderful concert, I owe you.”

He stared down at Marlowe. “Thou art not the man to keep a hold of the devil. Dance in thy sweet dreamy, Christopher Marlowe, until we meet again.”

Clonk! His chair hit the ground and Marlowe startled out of his fantasy. He stared at the parchment and wrote down the phrase with a trembling hand. “Thou art not the man to keep a hold of the devil.” It was an interesting concept. Kit smiled. “This is brilliant. Brilliant!”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments keep me going.


End file.
